


Cadenza

by bluevalentine69



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity (Not Merlin/Arthur), Light Angst, Living Together, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Musicans, Rimming, college students, flatmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27427789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluevalentine69/pseuds/bluevalentine69
Summary: Merlin Emrys is a world famous classical pianist, passionate about his music and only mildly interested in his boyfriend, Lance.When his old college mentor asks him to lend a spare room to one of his new students, Arthur, Merlin is happy to help out.He has no idea that Arthur is about to turn his life upside down.
Relationships: Endgame Merlin/Arthur;, Freya/Will (Merlin), Gwaine/Morgana (Merlin), Gwen/Leon (Merlin), Lancelot/Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 209





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A cadenza is a moment in a musical piece where an instrumentalist or singer is given the opportunity to play a solo freely and with artistic license to go outside of a rigid tempo or rhythm.
> 
> AKA - it’s all about the unexpected.

“Sorry I’m late, sorry, sorry!” Merlin apologises as he arrives flustered to the crowded table. He kisses Lance’s head and grins when Lance twists to get him full on the mouth, shrugging off his overcoat. “My plane from New York was delayed,” he explains, waving at all his friends and sliding into the narrow gap next to Lance on the bench seat.

“Jet-setting bastard,” Gwen grumbles, not entirely good-naturedly, and Merlin shrugs with a ‘what can you do?’ smile, handing across a turquoise Tiffany bag.

“Happy birthday misery guts,” he says cheerfully. “No card, sorry, got lost in transit.” Gwen peers into the bag and exclaims in delight when she pulls out gold aquamarine earrings.

“Make the rest of us look shit, why don’t you,” Gwaine grouses, throwing an arm around Morgana. “Your brother’s become a bit fancy for my tastes,” he says easily. “I got Gwen a Mars bar.”

“We got her Champneys Spa vouchers too,” Morgana says in a long-suffering tone, rolling her eyes at Merlin.

“Is Gwaine hoping to be her plus-one?” Merlin quips. “Your _boyfriend_ loves a hot face mask and a good blow dry, don’t you darling?”

“I certainly like a good blow,” Gwaine agrees. “Your sister is a master.” Merlin groans and looks at Lance.

“He’s disgusting even if you’re _not_ related to Morgana, right?” Lance nods, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Revolting,” he agrees, kissing his shoulder with a smile.

“You wound me,” Gwaine protests, kicking Lance and covering his heart dramatically. “I’m always so nice about you. I’ve always said if I were gay, and men could have children, our love child would be the handsomest fellow the world ever did see.” Gwaine points at Morgana. “ _Our_ child is going to look like Count Dracula, with my long hair and her monochromatic colouring.”

“Your child?” Merlin scoffs, and then sees Morgana’s smitten face. “Okay then,” he says wide-eyed, looking around for the booze. “Much wine, please,” he requests, handing his glass down the table and picking up the menu. “What is this place, French? Do they have steak?”

Halfway through the meal Merlin’s mobile rings.

“Sorry,” he says again, hastily, “give me a minute.” He takes the call outside the restaurant and returns flushed from the cold. “Gaius,” he explains at a look from Lance. “About my new flatmate.”

“Ah yes,” Lance withdraws his arm. “The ‘cock-blocker’ as I like to think of him.” Merlin opens his mouth to say something but Morgana chips in first.

“New flatmate?” she enquires, nosy as ever. “Merlin, you’re one of the most famous classical pianists and modern composers in the world. Classic FM listed you as their most eligible bachelor last year. You live in a glacial roof-top paradise, why the hell would you need a tenant?”

“He’s taking in waifs and strays,” Lance explains, arms crossed, given that Merlin’s mouth is stuffed with fries.

“He’s hardly a _stray_ ,” Merlin protests, swallowing his food. “He’s a full scholarship student at the Royal College of Music - a violinist - every bit as prodigious as I was at his age by all accounts,” Merlin finishes his wine with a slight smirk. “Although I think that’s unlikely - Gaius is probably just going senile in his old age.” Merlin grins his thanks as Gwaine tops him up.

“Anyway, Gaius has done me so many favours over the course of my career I’ve lost count, so I could hardly say ‘no’ when he called me over the summer about one of his new students starting in the October intake - Arthur? Apparently he’s estranged from his family or something. Totally broke, can’t afford rent, even if the college is paying his tuition fees and giving him a small maintenance grant … and I have a huge empty flat and spend a lot of time travelling, so Gaius thought I might be amenable to doing a good, charitable deed, in putting a roof over his head.” Merlin shrugs. “It’s no bother.” Lance raises his eyebrows at Gwen, quietly taking a drink of his own wine. His body language speaks volumes.

“It will severely impact on your ability to shag Lance on all your fancy white surfaces when you have adult sleepovers,” Gwaine points out, attacking the elephant in the room. “Unless you plan to ban him from your flat? And I thought you had strong _feelings_ about living with people?”

“What ‘feelings’?” Gwen asks, brow furrowed.

“That you shouldn’t,” Merlin says lightly. “I’m not really one for co-habiting - I’d drive someone mad, the hours I keep.” Lance looks at him musingly.

“But you’re happy to live with a stranger?” he asks. Everyone at the table looks at each other slightly uncomfortably - Lance wanting to move in with Merlin has been an ongoing issue between them.

“It’s different,” Merlin says firmly. “A kid I’m doing a favour for will have no expectations of me. Boyfriends always do - _you_ would.” He looks around the table for support. “Come on, you know it’s true. You live with someone and they expect you home at a certain time, and to eat supper with you, and to go to bed at the same time. I can’t be constricted like that. When I’m in my own space I can stay up all night writing music if I need to, and be an antisocial hermit without upsetting anyone. And when I have scheduled social evenings - or date nights - ” he adds, looking at Lance “- you get sparkly, fun, fully-invested Merlin!” He makes a little ‘ta dah’ motion with his hands and Lance’s face softens, sliding his arm back around Merlin’s waist and slipping his fingers beneath his jumper to rub the bare skin above his jeans.

“I know,” he grumbles playfully. “You’re a brilliant creative genius, and we can’t hold you to the same account as the rest of us ordinary mortals.” Merlin looks at Lance’s handsome face, starting to feel horny.

“You can’t deny I make it up to you in other ways,” he smirks, sliding a hand along his leg.

“Eew,” Morgana complains, taking her own turn at being the disgusted sibling.

*

“You know it hurts him,” Gwen says later, once their party has moved from the restaurant to a nearby bar, “that you won’t commit to him.” Merlin loves Gwen but his relationship with Lance is really none of her business. He takes a long swig of whisky.

“I do commit to him, in my own way,” he defends himself.

“You refuse to let your relationship with him develop,” Gwen says. “He worships you, you know he does. He’d be ready for joint bank accounts and mortgages and marriage and kids and forever if it was up to him.” Merlin toys with his beer mat.

“I’m not that kind of guy,” he says neutrally, gaze flicking to Lance, laughing at something Morgana is saying. “He chooses to be with me, whatever my faults,” he says eventually.

“He loves you,” Gwen says. Merlin nods. “Well,” she pushes. “Do you love _him_ , or not? You’ve been together for more than a year now.” He breathes deeply, irritated, as usual, by this kind of prosaic conversation.

“I’m not cut out like you Gwen,” he says, slightly impatiently. “My whole life is my music. Sex is something I enjoy recreationally. Relationships have never been something I actively seek. I’m not a territorial person. I don’t get jealous. I made it clear to Lance right from the beginning that he could see other people.”

“And he made it clear that he likes monogamy,” Gwen argues. Merlin doesn’t know who made her Lance’s protector.

“Right,” he agrees. “And I agreed to be exclusive because I knew it was important to him.” He looks back at Lance. “We’re happy Gwen. We’re boyfriends who don’t live together - it’s not that odd, in the brave new world we live in.” He can’t help being slightly sarky. “Plus, there’s really no need for one-night stands when your boyfriend looks like _that_ ,” he smirks. “The sex is fan-fucking- _tastic_.” At Gwen’s pained expression, Merlin rolls his eyes. “It works for us.” Gwen seems oddly tearful as she stirs her mojito.

“All I know is that I’d feel like I’d won the bloody lottery if somebody looked at me the way Lance looks at you. I wouldn’t take it for granted.”

“I don’t,” Merlin says gently, pushing his whisky towards her. “Come on, you’re being morbid because it’s your thirty-second birthday and you thought you’d be married with children by now. And everyone around you is slowly pairing off.” Merlin glances at Morgana and Gwaine - now _that_ had come as a surprise. “You’ll find someone,” he says encouragingly. “Frey’s brother saw you at my last concert and expressed his _admiration_ \- I keep telling you to let me set you up on a date.”

“Your agent is terrifying,” Gwen shudders. “I can’t imagine anyone related to her would be my sort of person.”

“Well, I’ve met him,” Merlin says, ordering another Scotch. “Leon. He’s a chef. And he’s tall and charming and gentle and probably your future husband, so stop being so stubborn and let me work my magic. I introduced the swaggering moron that is Gwaine O’Sullivan to my sister, didn’t I?” He grimaces. “My god I’m a tit.” Gwen finally laughs at him, sour mood broken.

“Fine,” she agrees. “You can set me up with _Leon_.”

*

Merlin groans as he releases himself inside Lance, hands on his lower back, caressing his muscled thighs, his perfect, tanned arse. Lance is still hard and leaking, cock jutting forward, desperately seeking relief.

“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling Lance up and into his lap, his back to Merlin’s chest, one hand slowly jerking him off as the other rubs his nipples, gently biting the base of his throat.

“I missed you,” Lance gasps, rocking forward into Merlin’s hand and back onto his softening cock, hand reaching back to tangle his fingers in Merlin’s dark hair. “Two weeks is too long.”

“I know,” Merlin agrees. “Come for me,” he whispers softly, loving the feeling of Lance’s supple, taut body in his arms. “Come on sweetheart, come for me. Let me see you.” Lance shouts and spurts pearly white threads all over Merlin’s bed, flopping forward onto his arms and moaning as Merlin withdraws, two fingers lazily running across his puffy hole, semen oozing out and running down his thigh. Merlin presses a kiss to the base of his spine and rolls onto his back, one hand in Lance’s hair, half-heartedly massaging his head.

“How’s Trot’s arthritis?” Merlin asks sleepily - Trot is Lance’s eight-year-old spaniel.

“Still limping,” Lance answers, moving to slide a leg between Merlin’s, looking down at the lithe, naked body of his lover. “Have I mentioned recently how gorgeous you are?” he asks reverently. Merlin smiles, pulling him down for a kiss.

“I know I’m punching,” he says good-naturedly, enjoying Lance’s blush. They lie in happy, sated silence for a while before Merlin tweaks Lance’s hair. “Gwen seems to think I’m treating you badly,” he says thoughtfully. Lance looks up with a puzzled expression. Merlin looks steadily back at him. “Anything you want to share?” he asks. Lance huffs.

“I may have expressed some _mild_ disgruntlement that your swanky shag pad is now pretty much off limits to us, unless your new roommate also likes to have regular adult sleepovers _elsewhere_.”

“I am sorry,” Merlin says, genuinely. “I really didn’t think how it would impact us when I said yes to Gaius.”

“I may also have been slightly disgruntled to have been an afterthought,” Lance says drily.

“You’re not,” Merlin says, kissing him with a frown. “I just -” he stops, frustrated. No-one seems to understand that he’s fundamentally wired _differently_ from most of their social group. “I just don’t equate home with heart, I guess. I own part of a building, with spare rooms, and my oldest and dearest mentor asked if I could lend him one of them. For me, that transaction took place entirely outside of our relationship.”

“I know,” Lance says, hand slowly working its way between Merlin’s legs, stroking him again. “You’re generous and big-hearted and open-minded and I’m selfish in wanting to keep you all to myself.”

“So you’re not unhappy?” Merlin checks, biting his lip as Lance tugs his hardening cock towards himself.

“Not in the slightest,” Lance promises. “Nice as Gwen is, I’m a big boy, I can look after myself.” Merlin cheers up considerably and rolls on top of Lance.

“Now that you mention it, you are a very, very big boy, aren’t you?” He smiles as Lance laughs, spreading his legs and pushing back inside him.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur’s jaw nearly hits the floor when the doorman shows him into P1 - or Penthouse 1 - in the expensive block of apartments that is by some miracle his new home. Gaius follows him in, tipping Barry - Arthur must remember his name - and closing the front door. There’s a note on the hall table.

_Hi Arthur,_

_I’d hoped to be in to welcome you, but I got a last minute call to play in Vienna this weekend, Wiener Staatsoper - their pianist has flu. I’ll be back on Monday. In the meantime here is your key card, and the building alarm code is 41570. Make yourself at home! Your bedroom is the ensuite with towels on the bed._

_Merlin_

“That’s a shame,” Gaius comments. “I was looking forward to seeing him.” He looks around distastefully. “Not to my taste, but there you go. It’s a home at least.”

“Gaius, it’s amazing,” Arthur says genuinely. “I don’t know how to thank you. Or Merlin.”

“Get him some whisky,” Gaius advises. “Well, I’ll leave you to get settled. You have my number? Your money has come in from the college?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you so much Gaius, really.”

“Your mother would be proud of you,” Gaius says gruffly, gripping Arthur’s shoulder. “I’ll see you bright and early on Monday morning then?” Arthur nods, choked up, as he sees Gaius out, and then turns to examine his new home.

It’s a huge, open plan heaven of minimalism, white marble floors and ebony furniture, glass exterior walls overlooking the steely Thames and Canary Wharf; a floating glass staircase leading up to what looks like a room bauble, empty save for a black grand piano. Arthur’s willing to bet it’s sound-proofed. The built-in bookcases are meticulously organised with books, magazines, music journals, records, international awards, sleekly framed photos. The kitchen is a triumph of chrome and gadgetry. The artwork is modern, bold; there are metal sculptures on plinths - _installations_ they’d be called in an art gallery. The whole place screams of success and taste and polish and money - nothing like Arthur’s ever experienced. And most overwhelmingly of all, this is the home of _Merlin Emrys_ , the world’s most brilliant classical music star. To say Arthur is a fan would be understating the matter. He’d had a poster of Merlin on his boarding school wall.

He wheels his suitcase through the living area and kitchen into a hallway beyond, walls mirrored and lights automatically turning on. He peers into each of the rooms - bedroom, another bedroom (clearly Merlin’s), a study, a snug room, a shower room, and finally, at the end of the corridor, a large corner room with a huge four-poster bed, made up with pressed white linens, a pile of fluffy black towels at the foot of the bed. There’s also a pile of books including a Time Out guide to London, and a couple of current live performance programmes for local venues; The Roundhouse, Barbican. Merlin seems to be very thoughtful.

Arthur sits in the dark leather armchair and gazes out at the water, suddenly overcome by how much his life has changed. His mother had been a flautist with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra - Gaius had conducted it when she was alive. She’d died giving birth to him, and his father, a lawyer, had never been able to love Arthur as a result. He’d hated anything that reminded him of his late wife, hated Arthur’s affinity for music, refused to pay for music lessons. Fortunately, they had a next door neighbour called Alice who had been a close friend of his mother’s, and she privately arranged lessons for Arthur with a music teacher from the local high school, Kilgarrah.

When his father found out that it was Arthur’s intention to study music at the same conservatoire his mother had been to, that had been it for their relationship. Arthur was cut off on his eighteenth birthday. If it hadn’t been for Kilgarrah helping him win a scholarship, and Gaius championing full support from the college board, he’d have never been able to make his dream come true. He absolutely won’t take it for granted.

*

“Just landed,” Merlin says into the mouthpiece on his headphones, lugging his suitcase into a black taxi. “Canary Wharf please, mate,” he simultaneously instructs the driver. He stretches his legs out and looks at his reflection in the rainy window as Lance tries to convince him to come over. He’s tempted. Some bolognese and a blow job would be perfect right now. He groans slightly, letting his head thud back.

“I wish I could,” he says apologetically. “I need to go and check in at home, I promised Gaius. Tomorrow?” He belatedly remembers he’s due to give a private soirée at the Royal Opera House tomorrow night. “Ah, shit, can’t. Wednesday?” Lance agrees, accommodating as always. “I’ll take you out to dinner,” Merlin promises. “Make reservations anywhere you like.” They chat for a bit before Merlin rings off, closing his eyes as they hit London traffic, exhausted after two days of performances and Austrian nightlife. Touring musicians are a sociable bunch.

He’s surprised when he gets home to find Einaudi playing softly, a delicious smell wafting through from the kitchen. He leaves his case by the door and walks into the living room, stopping short when he sees Arthur for the first time. He’s not exactly sure what he’d expected. He’d imagined an eighteen-year-old music student to be lanky, glass-wearing - a bit dorky, like he used to be, maybe. Arthur is young, certainly, but fully-formed. He looks like a Roman statue. He’s blonde and unnaturally handsome and dressed smartly in jeans and a polo shirt. He looks up suddenly, as though he’s conscious of being watched, and Merlin thinks _oh fuck_. His eyes are blue and serious and his lips are red and pouty and his slightly stunned expression makes Merlin want to kiss him. _Oh fuck fuck fuck_ , he thinks again, for good measure.

“Hi,” Arthur says nervously, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel and coming around the counter to introduce himself. He holds out a hand. “I’m Arthur.”

“Merlin,” Merlin says stupidly, trying to smile.

“I’m really grateful,” Arthur says, gesturing around the flat. “I know it must be an imposition and I promise I’ll keep out of your way.” He speaks hurriedly, as if expecting dismissal. “I’m a huge fan.” He flushes. “Sorry, you must hate meeting people who say that.” Merlin is a bit distracted by his prominent Adam’s apple and doesn’t really hear what he’s said.

“I’m flattered,” he answers vaguely, looking towards the kitchen.

“Oh. I’m cooking coq au vin,” Arthur says, gesturing behind him, “if you’re hungry. Gaius said you liked it.” _What kind of student cooks fucking coq au vin?_

“Yes, it’s one of my favourites,” Merlin smiles, slightly manically. “I can’t actually cook, so this is a rare treat. Most nights it’s just toast. Or sushi takeaway.” _God, I’m rambling like a twat_ he chastises himself, mentally preparing an exit route.

“If I wanted a hot meal growing up, I had to cook it for myself.” Arthur shrugs. “I’m quite good in the kitchen.” Merlin stares, wanting to kiss him again. He shakes himself, alarmed.

“I think it would be easier to work a jet engine than that ridiculous oven,” he jokes, words escaping his mouth with barely any conscious thought. _Get out_ his brain warns him. “I should unpack,” he excuses himself hastily, “Shower. How long -?” Arthur flushes again, biting his lip. Merlin silently prays for mercy.

“Forty minutes? I can eat in my room and leave you a plate.”

“Don’t be silly,” Merlin frowns, appalled at the suggestion. “Coq au vin deserves table settings and company. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll come and help.” He flees to the safety of his bedroom and spends several minutes looking at his bed in consternation. “ _What the absolute buggering hell?_ ” he groans into his palms.

One quick shower (and one quick wank) later, he lies on his bed naked and picks up his phone, opening Facebook and typing Arthur’s name in. He thinks Gaius says his surname was Pendragon? Arthur’s face appears and Merlin looks through the public photos he’s been tagged in - playing rugby for his school team, tennis, skiing, and playing in concert, head bowed over a violin, face exquisite in its concentration, fingers elegant and graceful on neck and bow. He’s beautiful and unsettling, and like with music, those are the two qualities that call most strongly to Merlin.

*

Supper is much easier than Merlin is expecting. Arthur is friendly but not overfamiliar, self-deprecating but not gloomy, grateful but not pathetically so, and when he laughs he tips his head back and barks out his laughter in a way that amuses Merlin. He’s touched by Arthur’s lack of self-pity, by his courage, by his passion. Merlin was lucky. Both his parents were surgeons, and he and Morgana always had the best of everything, with huge helpings of love and support to boot. Merlin can’t imagine doing it alone; how lonely that must be.

When they’ve finished eating, Arthur starts to clear up the plates. Merlin puts out a hand to stop him.

“I have a cleaner who’ll do this tomorrow,” he says. “You must have work to do?” Merlin’s first year at the conservatoire was spent writing endless compositions on his computer, barely sleeping until each piece was perfect.

“I don’t mind,” Arthur smiles, stacking the crockery and carrying everything to the dishwasher. Merlin awkwardly helps him, not used to navigating the ins and outs of his kitchen. He’s not terribly domesticated, truth be told.

“Here,” he says at last, as Merlin finishes wiping down the countertops, pushing a bottle-shaped bag towards Merlin. “It’s not an expensive one, I’m afraid, but the man in the whisky store said it’s quite popular.” Merlin peers into the bag. It’s a bottle of Aberlour. Something inside him twinges at the thought of Arthur choosing this for him.

“It’s one of my favourites, actually,” Merlin says quietly. “Thanks Arthur.” A genuine, warm smile fills Arthur’s face, and Merlin is so distracted he almost forgets to breathe.

“I’ll say goodnight then,” Arthur says, gesturing to his room. Merlin nods, clutching the brown paper bag.

“Arthur,” he calls out, before Arthur disappears into the hall. He turns. “If you need help with anything - personally or academically - I’m always here.” Merlin waves his hand vaguely. “Well, not always _here_ , you know, geographically, but … available.” _Available?_ his brain jeers at him. _God you’re a baboon._ Arthur nods shyly and waves slightly before retreating to his room.

*

“What’s the matter with you?” Freya asks, stopping short when she sees Merlin splayed on the couch in her office, a cushion over his face. “You look like a dying starfish.” When he only groans in response, she lifts the cushion and puts her hand on his forehead. “Are you sick? Do we need to cancel the soirée tonight?”

“No,” he grumbles, putting an arm over his face. “I didn’t sleep last night.” Freya moves his legs and sits at the end of the couch.

“Working on something new?” she asks.

“In a manner of speaking,” he mutters. “I have a new flatmate.”

“Oh!” Freya says surprised. “You’ve finally moved in with Lance then?”

“No,” Merlin shakes his head.

“Oh,” Freya says again, confused. And then, “ _oh_.” She frowns down at him. “Have you told Lance?” Merlin removes his arm from his face.

“Have I told my boyfriend that I’ve developed a totally inappropriate crush on the eighteen-year-old _orphan_ whose welfare has been entrusted to me by my former mentor?” Merlin looks flatly at Freya. “Astonishingly, I haven’t.”

“Don’t work yourself up about it,” Freya advises, satisfied that nothing is seriously wrong, and standing up to make coffee. “Everyone gets the occasional itch. It’ll wear off, crushes do.”

*

When Merlin gets home, the flat is quiet. He’s exhausted after his evening’s performance, and he’s got to be up early for a recording session for his new album, but there’s a nagging set of chords chasing each other around the back of his mind, and he knows he won’t sleep until he’s caught them and committed them to paper. He heads up to his studio with the bottle of whisky Arthur bought him, pours himself a drink, and then lets his fingers run free, dancing across the keys to a tune he can’t hear properly yet. Whatever it is, Merlin wants to capture it; something about the uneasy combination of sharp and flat notes is sending shivers up his spine. He tries not to acknowledge that it’s not his usual style … it’s bordering on being hauntingly romantic.

*

“You seem distracted,” Lance comments as they leave Mestizo, one of the best Mexican restaurants in London. Its dark red interior is sultry and seductive; usually Merlin would be dragging Lance home by this point. Merlin forces his mind away from Arthur, who’d looked oddly disappointed when Merlin told him he wouldn’t be coming home tonight.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, pressing Lance against the wall of the alley they’re walking down, pinning his hips to the bricks and claiming his lips, mind settling as the familiarity of Lance, and his attraction to Lance, grounds him to safe territory.

“There you are,” Lance smiles, running his nose up the column of Merlin’s throat. “Hello. Another drink somewhere, or are you ready for bed yet?”

“Bed,” Merlin requests, mainly because he’s tired. “ASAP.”

He rethinks his life choices when he’s lying on Lance’s dark sheets, cock halfway down his boyfriend’s throat, softening rapidly. Lance glances up, sucking the head of Merlin’s dick and running a finger along Merlin’s perineum, towards his hole. Merlin closes his eyes, trying to relax, to enjoy the warm mouth sucking him and the gentle fingers stroking him, but he can’t connect to it at all.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a thumb along Lance’s chin. “I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“Work?” Lance asks, used to Merlin’s occasional bouts of stress-related absent-mindedness. Merlin nods, at a loss for how else to explain his mood. Ideally he’d like to be in his own bed, alone. _Not alone_ , his traitorous brain supplies.

“Let me do you,” he offers, sitting up and switching places with Lance. He diligently sets about making Lance feel good, some guilty part of him feeling like he owes his boyfriend a mind-blowing orgasm, at least.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the weeks, Merlin and Arthur develop an easy dynamic. After Arthur saw him playing - or more accurately, composing - late one night, and Merlin invited him to join in, freestyle, with his violin, they’ve spent a lot of time playing music together.

Merlin travels a lot, Arthur cooks when he’s at home. Gradually he’s introduced to various members of Merlin’s social circle, as people drop by. Meeting Lance had been interesting. Merlin seemed on edge in his presence, gaze flicking to Arthur frequently and sliding away uneasily, jumping every time Lance touched him. Later that night, Arthur could hear the very distinctive sounds of two people trying not to be heard having sex. He’d been uncomfortably hard all night.

*

In late November, Merlin invites Arthur to watch him in concert in Germany. Gwen was meant to be coming for a mini-break, along with Lance and Freya and her husband Will, but had to back out at the last minute because of work. He slightly regrets his impromptu offer when he sees Arthur in a dark blazer, dressed up to watch Merlin’s performance at the Berliner Philharmoniker. Their mutual glances are becoming too long; Merlin worries that someone’s going to notice. That Lance is going to notice.

After taking several encores from the standing ovation in the hall, shaking hands with the conductor and various members of the orchestra, and signing programmes for a few VIPs, Merlin makes his way back to his dressing room to get changed before meeting everyone outside. He closes the door and jumps when Arthur turns around from an armchair in the corner.

“Freya let me in,” he says apologetically, face shining with so much raw admiration Merlin’s skin tingles, as though his approval is a physical caress.

“Benefit of being a musician yourself,” Merlin smiles uneasily, “backstage passes.”

“You were amazing,” Arthur says, such wonder on his face, such excruciating _want_ , Merlin feels thunderstruck. It’s the first time Arthur’s seen him perform.

“Thanks,” he says tightly, trying to undo his bowtie with shaky fingers: Lance and Will are waiting downstairs.

“It felt like every person in the audience was under some kind of spell,” Arthur continues, moving closer. “I don’t think I saw anyone blink until the first interval. Everyone was staring at the blur of your fingers.” Arthur’s gaze moves to Merlin’s long, slender hands.

“Fuck,” Merlin curses, clenching his fists, heart thumping a percussion against his ribcage. He shakes his head. “Sorry,” he mutters, moving to his case at the side of the room. Glancing back at Arthur’s enquiring eyebrow, his palpable desire filling the room with a heady musk, something in Merlin snaps. Before he can think better of it, he strides across the room to him and pushes him back against the wall as he finds his mouth, kissing his praise and his irritating words right out of it.

Arthur gasps, struck still for a moment as Merlin’s tongue hungrily seeks out his own, but then he’s alive in Merlin’s arms, pulling him closer, kissing him like it’s his first and last kiss, like he’s a drowning man and Merlin is water. Merlin is painfully hard, but Arthur is harder, if the sizeable erection pressing against his leg is anything to go by. He drops to his knees and unbuttons Arthur’s trousers, pulling them down his thighs with his boxers and then staring for a moment at Arthur’s beautiful, perfect, eagerly flushed cock for the first time.

“Jesus Christ have mercy,” he groans, ignoring the phone vibrating in his back pocket as he licks the precum beading at Arthur’s tip. He tastes glorious, and Merlin hungrily swallows him down, gripping his thighs hard enough to hurt as he encourages Arthur to fuck his mouth. Arthur is gone though, arching against the wall and releasing a litany of helpless gasps, fingers soft in Merlin’s hair as they gently caress his scalp, and that won’t do - Merlin can’t see his face. He pulls off, squeezing Arthur’s legs.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice gravelly and broken. “I want to see you come.” Arthur’s face is wrecked when he blinks down at Merlin, achingly handsome and so dear to Merlin now, it makes his gut clench. He holds Arthur’s gaze as he returns to sucking his brains out through his cock, and within seconds Arthur’s face has contorted in unbearable, agonising pleasure, whimpering as Merlin continues to lick his over-sensitive cock. Merlin presses his head against Arthur’s stomach and shudders as he silently comes too, untouched, losing control of himself for the first time since he was a teenager making out with a guy for the first time, some nameless bloke he’d met at a festival.

“Did you just come?” Arthur asks, eyes wide, astonishment in his voice. Merlin pants against Arthur’s jutting hipbone, totally fucked.

“I did,” he says wearily, kissing the damp patch of skin above Arthur’s groin before attempting to find his feet and stand. Arthur reaches for him but Merlin shakes his head, needing a moment to compose himself. His phone is vibrating in his pocket again. Arthur registers it this time, face falling.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Merlin says seriously, almost to himself, cut up when he sees the resulting pain on Arthur’s face. He moves closer, entwining his fingers with Arthur’s. “Arthur, I’m too old, I’m responsible for you. And Lance …” he’s getting a migraine. “Shit,” he mutters softly.

“I’m glad you did,” Arthur says, jaw tightening, removing his hand from Merlin’s and pulling his trousers back up. “I won’t say anything,” he adds quietly. “Don’t worry.”

“I just need to think,” Merlin says apologetically. “I’m sorry. Can we just … press pause on this. Please?” He looks at Arthur, willing him to understand, not to be offended. “I’m having a major adrenaline comedown, a pretty rude reality check, and quite possibly a midlife crisis, and -” he’s stopped short when Arthur suddenly embraces him, totally at a loss and painfully aroused, still, by Arthur’s sweetness.

“I’m in love with you,” Arthur whispers. “I don’t expect anything, and I don’t want things to be awkward between us, but I want you to know that I love you,” he pulls back, kissing the corner of Merlin’s mouth, “and I’m glad my first anything was with you.”

“Your first …” Merlin’s brain is short-circuiting. “Oh god,” he says again. “Arthur -” but Arthur shakes his head and is gone, leaving Merlin standing in an empty room. “Fuck!” He’s on the verge of tearing his hair out when his phone vibrates again.

“Sorry,” he answers it, seeing Lance’s name. “Got caught up backstage, I’m on my way.”

“Will’s found a jazz bar that’s still open,” Lance says enthusiastically, “shall we book a table, enjoy being in Berlin?” Merlin would rather go to bed.

“Sounds great,” he answers unenthusiastically, nausea rising in his gut. “See you soon.” He hangs up and winces at the sticky pull of his trousers. He can still taste Arthur on his tongue. 

*

“Tired?” Lance asks him, in the dark corner of their booth. Merlin knows he’s out of sorts, paralysed by guilt - and not just for cheating on Lance. Rather more, actually, for hurting Arthur. He registered how Arthur looked away miserably when Lance kissed him on his arrival downstairs, conscious, suddenly - and irrationally irritated by - all of Lance’s small, territorial touches, his unconscious claims to Merlin’s person. Merlin nods, fiddling with his negroni, eyes seeking out Arthur, dancing exuberantly with Freya on the dance floor. His face softens for a moment, smiling at Arthur’s youthful energy.

“Do you want to dance?” Lance asks, following his gaze. Merlin kicks himself and shakes his head.

“I’m impressed by how much energy they still have,” he says, to cover up his interest. “Must be nearly two.” Lance looks at his watch and nods, and then grins and gestures towards the dance floor, where Will is handing out glasses.

“I think Will’s regular supply of  Jägerbombs is responsible,” he smirks. “Oh, hold up, caffeine incoming.” Will arrives at their table with a breathless Freya in tow, sliding two glasses across the table to Merlin and Lance.

“Drink up you two, anyone would think this was a funeral.” Lance takes a sip and Merlin thinks _what the hell_ and downs his drink with a grimace.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he complains, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“They know how to fucking _party_ in Deutschland!” Freya cries, tiny and glittery and bouncing up and down to some kind of horrific house music. The deep bass and electronic synthesiser are accompanied by glitter balls and strobe lightening, and Merlin wonders how this, on any level, resembles a ‘jazz bar’. Jazzy decor? 

“Someone’s in their element,” Will smirks, watching as an enormous, muscled, leather-clad man starts dancing with Arthur. Merlin expects Arthur to pull away, but he doesn’t, grinding his arse sensually back against the stranger’s groin, allowing himself to be - quite explicitly - groped. A churning jealousy makes bile rise up in his throat, before something stronger kicks in - concern - as Merlin suddenly worries about how drunk he is. Lance lets out a low wolf whistle.

“I realise you’ll have no appreciation for this, as sad, married, heterosexual people, but in our world they are prime wank-fantasy fodder. Am I right?” he looks over at Merlin, who thinks he might actually vomit. 

“How many has he had?” Merlin asks Will, ignoring Lance’s question. Will shrugs, wrapping an arm around a swaying Freya. 

“Enough to dance like a porn star, apparently.” Merlin feels responsible. He’s never seen Arthur drunk before. And he’s fairly certain Arthur wouldn’t want a drunken fuck with a stranger, which is very much where the little display on the dance floor is heading.

“We should get him back to the hotel,” Merlin says to Lance, looking at him in consternation when Lance puts a hand on his arm.

“He’s eighteen,” Lance says gently. “We’re not his parents. Let him have fun.” 

“You think being date raped is fun?” Merlin asks caustically, sliding out of the booth and heading towards Arthur on autopilot. He grips Arthur’s face when he gets to him and glares at the Titan-like man-beast currently cupping Arthur’s cock. Something in his expression causes the giant to back off, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace and mixing back in with the crowd. Arthur frowns at him.

“Merlin?” he asks, nose wrinkled in confusion. _Really fucking drunk then_ Merlin surmises, oddly relieved that Arthur was neither hot for the guy, or trying to play mind games with him.

“Time to go home,” Merlin gestures, finding Arthur’s hand in the dark and pulling him back towards their booth. He makes Lance watch him whilst he goes to get a pint of water from the bar, and then stands next to him until he’s drunk the whole lot. Arthur sets the glass down carefully on the table and looks up at Merlin quizzically. 

“Feel like you’re going to be sick?” Merlin checks. Arthur raises his eyebrows.

“I’m not _five_ ,” he says, petulantly enough that Merlin can imagine that he would have been exactly the same at five. And isn’t that a thought he wants to have.

“What a relief,” Merlin says, annoyed now that he knows Arthur’s okay, “or that lovely little show you were participating in would have been _illegal_ , not just gross and morally questionable.”

“You found my dancing gross?” Arthur asks, and maybe he’s not quite as drunk as Merlin thought he was, because there’s the hint of a challenge there, of satisfied disbelief. He knows Merlin is being territorial. Merlin narrows his eyes at him.

“Home,” he orders, rallying everyone and exiting into fresh air to sort out taxis. 

*

Once Arthur is safely delivered to his hotel room, and Merlin has had a hot shower, he climbs into bed beside Lance, feeling turbulent. He absolutely does not want to be in this hotel room with Lance, for one thing. He feels like he’s cheating on Arthur. And then there’s the fact that he _actually_ cheated on Lance, and can barely look him in the eye. 

“You were sweet with Arthur earlier,” Lance says, rolling over and sliding a hand underneath Merlin’s t-shirt and across his abs. “I’ve never seen you so protective before.” Merlin is too tired to properly participate in conversation, and fed up of the odd emotional seasickness he’s been suffering from since meeting Arthur, so he steels himself for the inevitable accusation, the obvious question, the reasonable anger. He’s pretty surprised when all Lance says, is, “I can imagine what you’d be like as a father.” Merlin blinks open his eyes and looks at Lance askance. 

“What?” he asks blankly. 

“I just …” Lance trails off. “I like seeing you in parent mode.” That was absolutely _not_ parent mode, Merlin thinks. That was jealous boyfriend mode. Which, in fairness, Lance has also never seen, because Merlin has never cared that much. He feels irrationally angry. 

“God, don’t,” he pleads, rolling away from Lance and feeling the distance between them in bed expand to fill an ocean. 

“You really don’t want them?” Lance asks behind him. Merlin tries to imagine being in his flat with a screaming baby and dirty nappies strewn across his white marble floors, instead of in a tuxedo, performing in Copenhagen, or Luxembourg, or Sydney. 

“Probably not,” he says, mentally exhausted. “I’ve made that clear from day one.” 

“People do change,” Lance says quietly. 

“They do,” Merlin agrees, “but it’s best to accept someone on the terms you’re given, in case they don’t. You can’t bet on an uncertainty.” He feels Lance shuffle closer and kiss the back of his neck.

“I’m okay with those terms,” he says, wrapping an arm around Merlin and pulling him back into a spooning position. Merlin feels incredibly claustrophobic, but fortunately his exhaustion and alcohol consumption pull him out of consciousness, in spite of his internal panic station on full alert.

*

It’s a sombre flat when they return home. Arthur keeps to his room, Merlin spends a lot of time in an external recording studio, or in his own studio. He tries to rationalise what he’s feeling. Lance is good for him. He can’t imagine anyone else being as patient with him - the invariably brief durations of his previous relationships are testament to that, even when they’ve been open. And what he feels for Arthur surely _isn’t_ durable? Lust, infatuation, intoxication; all these things die. He’s almost completely certain he loves Arthur too - but what does that really mean? Arthur’s eighteen. Hasn’t he been the one telling Lance, and any other man who has tried to force commitment from him, _you can’t bet on an uncertainty_. 

The downside of that argument, of course, is that _no_ other human being is ever a certainty. And there’s every chance it could work with Arthur. His youth means he won’t be pushing Merlin for commitments he can’t - or won’t - make. There is also the problematic issue of being increasingly _insane_ in Arthur’s presence. He doesn’t actually _want_ to have to resist his desire to touch him anymore. To resist taking him to bed for days. To pretend not to be jealous every time other men and women look at him. His chaotic, conflicting, self-defeating thoughts chase each other around and he is sleepless with confusion. Arthur and Lance think he’s in full album-recording mode, but he’s never been so unfocused on his music.

After nearly a fortnight of fatigue, hiding, guilt, and confusion - broken up by another quick work trip to Switzerland: Bern, Geneva and Zürich - Merlin gets home past nightfall, wet, cold and tired. The apartment is dark, save for the flickering, watery, orange lights coming in from the Thames, and the bright white orb of his studio floating above the main room. He stops, heart contracting, to watch Arthur playing his violin, barefoot in his pyjamas, blonde head bowed seriously, moving to a song that Merlin can’t hear from this floor. He watches the way the light curves around him, the furrow of concentration between his brows, and suddenly his mind is quiet, all resistance gone, cleared by the blinding, brilliant knowledge that he loves this man, come what may. He is worth every risk. 

He shrugs out of his wet coat and toes off his shoes, padding across the quiet space and up the staircase, entranced when he opens the door and hears Arthur’s composition for the first time. It’s the one he’s been preparing for the end of term concert the Royal College always puts on for its patrons. Merlin’s heard snippets of it before, helped him with writing the tricky piano passages, but this - Arthur playing with body and soul to a computerised orchestra, all the different elements finally tied together - is something breathtaking. He lets the music wash over him, warming him to his core, and he realises it’s a love song. Every lingering note is a covert glance, every soaring crescendo a rush of adrenaline, every jumpy staccato a moment of uncertainty. It’s beautiful. As Arthur draws to the end of the song, he moves to stand behind him, putting both hands on Arthur’s waist, pressing his forehead to Arthur’s neck. Arthur stops playing immediately, bringing down his violin and bow. Merlin can hear his heart beating and slides a hand beneath his t-shirt to rest on the flat plane of his stomach.

“Sorry,” Arthur murmurs, “I didn’t think you’d be back until later. I can leave.” 

“I don’t want you to leave,” Merlin says, sliding his nose up the column of Arthur’s neck and pressing a kiss behind his ear, pulling him back until he’s firmly in Merlin’s embrace. “I can’t wait to see it performed live.” Arthur puts his instrument on the stand in front of him, turning around slowly in Merlin’s arms, eyes roving his face for an explanation. 

“You don’t have to come,” he says, the picture of confusion. “I expected you wouldn’t, not after …” he trails off, looking down and biting his lip. Merlin kisses him softly, fingers cupping his jaw.

“Did you know that I turned down an invitation to perform in Paris, to come to your concert?” he asks lightly. Arthur’s brow furrows. Merlin nods. “From the President, actually.” Arthur looks horrified, about to protest, so Merlin puts a finger on his lips, both eyebrows raising. “Of course I’m fucking coming.” He hates, _hates_ , that Arthur thinks he wouldn’t. Not when the song has been born in this studio. Inspired by him. He hates that Arthur doesn’t value himself, hates that he doesn’t believe he’s worth Merlin’s time. Arthur flushes, looking down, and Merlin’s heart constricts at the realisation that Arthur’s never been loved and so doesn’t expect to be, and his body moves of its own accord, hands sliding into Arthur’s hair, around his neck, lips moving softly to his, gentle and intimate and purposeful, where in Berlin it had been thoughtless and consuming.

“I love you,” he says, pulling back marginally. “It’s taken me far too long to realise that it was love, because it’s not something I’ve experienced before, and so I didn’t immediately recognise it. But I love you, and I want you, if you’ll have me.” Tears pool in Arthur’s eyes and he wraps both arms around Merlin, surrounding Merlin with so much love he can’t believe there was ever any question in his mind. What a waste of internal angst.

“What about Lance?” Arthur whispers, pulling back guiltily, but Merlin doesn’t release his grip. 

“I want to do this properly,” Merlin shrugs, body yearning for Arthur’s.

“This?” Arthur asks hesitantly.

“Us,” Merlin says slowly, surprised by the question in Arthur’s voice. Surely he couldn’t think - “did you think I just meant I wanted to take you to bed?” Arthur’s colouring cheeks are an eloquent answer. “I love you,” Merlin reiterates, “I don’t want you to be a dirty secret. I want to come to your concert as your boyfriend, and shower you with the praise you deserve, and buy you extravagant Christmas presents.” He warms at the growing realisation dawning on Arthur’s face. The unmistakeable beginnings of one of his huge, face-splitting beams. “I’ll see Lance in the morning,” he murmurs, pushing his guilt aside. Arthur clings to Merlin, and the wetness against his neck tells him Arthur is crying.

“Come to bed?” he asks softly. “I’m exhausted. Just … sleep next to me?” Arthur nods, face endearingly flushed, and they make their way downstairs together, Merlin lightly holding Arthur’s fingers as he pulls him to his bedroom. “I’m going to have a quick shower,” he says, turning on the bedside lamp and kissing Arthur lingeringly. “Get cosy, okay?” 

“I made pollo alla parmigiana for supper,” Arthur offers, sitting at the edge of the bed and pulling Merlin between his legs, pressing his face to Merlin’s stomach, “if you’re hungry.” His voice is muffled and Merlin laughs at his blonde head, something light and fluttery filling his chest. 

“You’re going to make me fat,” Merlin smiles, stroking his neck.

“Unlikely,” Arthur says drily, slowly unbuttoning Merlin’s shirt and kissing bare skin. “I provide a full workout plan too.” 

“Oh?” Merlin enquires easily. Arthur nods.

“Starting with abs,” he says, licking a trail from Merlin’s bellybutton up his chest to his nipple, and from there to his collarbone.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, aroused, in love, helpless for Arthur’s touch. Arthur’s gaze, when he looks up slowly, is dark, his lips red, his cock tenting his flannel bottoms. He runs his thumb over Arthur’s bottom lip, pressing it slightly inside when Arthur opens his mouth. The pull is undeniable, but Merlin steps back with difficulty, panting slightly with the effort of resistance. 

“I can’t fuck over Lance more than I have already,” he tries to explain, regretfully, body fighting mind. He knows how important it is to physically show Arthur how loved and wanted he is, to make this real for both of them, to make him feel safe. But Lance deserves better than that, and Merlin doesn’t want to be a complete bastard. 

“Sorry,” Arthur smiles ruefully. He shuffles further back in the bed and then climbs under the duvet covers, turning his back on Merlin and nuzzling into his pillows. Merlin aches for him. 

He returns to the bedroom in boxers and a thin t-shirt, turns out the lights, and slides under the sheets, cosying up to Arthur’s warmth, wrapping him in his arms and kissing his head. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, fingers lightly caressing every bit of skin they find, ridiculously grateful that he’s somehow discovered that it’s possible to feel like this … like he does when he’s performing. Electrifying. 

“I love you too,” Arthur whispers back, sliding a leg between Merlin’s and going to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hello stranger,” Lance says with a smile, opening the door and standing aside to let Merlin in. “How was Switzerland?”

“Bloody freezing,” Merlin says, not faring much better in the English December weather - his nose is red. He rubs his hands together and walks through into the sitting room, tickling Trot’s head when he lifts himself up from the rug in front of the woodburner to greet him. “Hey buddy,” Merlin says, sorry that he won’t see Trot anymore. “How’s that leg of yours doing?” 

“Bit sore in now that it’s rainy, isn’t it chum?” Lance says, scratching behind Trot’s ears and wrapping his arms around Merlin from behind, walking him over to the sofa. “Tea?” he asks. Merlin shakes his head, extracting himself and perching on the coffee table instead.

“We need to talk,” he says tensely. He knows it’s clichéd, but there is really no better way of directly alerting someone to the fact that bad news is coming. 

“Okay,” Lance says slowly, sitting on the sofa opposite him. Merlin clasps his hands together, shakes them, rubs the back of his neck.

“God this is hard,” he mutters, trying to work out what to say. Lance puts a hand on his knee, and Merlin feels terrible, suddenly, sad that this is about to end, sad that he’s going to hurt Lance so much. He covers his hand with his own and looks him in the eye. 

“Before I say what I need to say, I want you to know that of all the men I’ve been with over the years, I’ve been the happiest with you. You’re an amazing, kind, handsome man, and you deserve so, so much better than me.” Realisation is dawning on Lance’s face and he pulls his hand back.

“Has something happened?” he asks. “That old boyfriend of yours in Geneva …?” Merlin shakes his head.

“Not in Geneva,” he whispers. “But I did cheat on you. I’m so sorry.” Lance looks at him, shock and confusion warring on his face. Merlin looks down. “I’d spare you the details, but I think this will be easier for you if you hate me,” he says quietly, biting his lip. It takes him a moment to compose himself before he can make eye contact with Lance again. “It was after the concert in Berlin, with Arthur.”

“ _Arthur_?” Lance asks, aghast. “He’s a child!” Merlin frowns.

“He’s not, actually. By the time I was his age I’d written most of my first album. And had a fling with a visiting Danish conductor who was in his forties. Edwin Møller.” Merlin waves his hands dismissively. “My younger self’s promiscuity is not something I have any particular inclination to revisit,” he says. “Point is, you can vote, drive, legally drink and get married at eighteen.” He sighs. “Defending my right to be attracted to Arthur is also pointless.” Lance looks torn, tanned face paling as he absorbs what Merlin is saying. 

“The thing is - and I realise this is potentially going to be the hardest bit to hear -” Merlin glances at Lance apologetically. “The thing is, I’ve fallen in love with him. And you …” Merlin trails off, sick with guilt. “You deserve to be with someone who’s in love with _you_.” That seems to be the final nail in the coffin. Lance stands up and walks into the kitchen, back to Merlin. He bends over the counter, head in his hands, the embodiment of a defeated man.

“Lance, I’m so sorry,” Merlin says quietly, following him, wishing he could offer any kind of comfort.

“You must have known,” Lance says between his fingers. “This can’t be brand new information. Why did you let me think we were happy?” Merlin feels spectacularly ill-equipped for this conversation - he’s really had no experience with emotional attachment until Arthur. 

“We were,” he says simply. “I thought Arthur was some kind of two-year itch. Now I know he wasn’t.” He feels a cold sense of finality settle around them; truthfully, there’s really not much else he can say. “Even without Arthur, it was probably selfish of me to stay in a relationship with you.” Merlin stands next to Lance, wondering whether he should hug him. “Being with you suited me, but everyone can see we’re on different pages. I know you want to live with someone, and to get married, and to have children, and you were sacrificing all those - really important - things to stay with me. That’s not sustainable.”

“What if Arthur wants those things?” Lance says, eyes dark and shiny. Merlin shrugs, at a loss.

“I’ve no idea. He’s eighteen, he’s not thinking about those things. His focus is totally on his music - like me. Who knows what he’ll want in ten, fifteen years? Maybe I’ll be on the same page by then, if we’re still together. You want those things _now_ , and definitely. I’m not there yet.” Lance blinks away tears, shoulders setting in a way that Merlin recognises as resignation. 

“I’d ask you to take your things, but you’ve never left anything here, have you?” There’s accusation in his tone, and Merlin knows he deserves it. Merlin doesn’t want to leave on this note, wants to offer some kindness to the man he’s shared almost two years of his life with.

“I’ve really valued our time together,” he says quietly, putting his hand on Lance’s shoulder. “Please don’t ever doubt that.” Lance raises a disbelieving eyebrow and moves away from him, walking him to the front door. “Back to the shag pad, is it?” he asks flatly. Merlin winces, knowing that had been exactly his intention. Lance’s face hardens. “Goodbye then,” he says, opening the door and looking at the floor whilst Merlin lingers, wondering how to make this slightly less agonising. Eventually he crosses the threshold, and the door closes behind him before he’s had a chance to say anything else. He blinks at it for a few moments, oddly struck that this is the last time he’ll be in this building. He takes the stairs, calling Morgana when he gets outside, and then sending a text to Arthur.

_It’s done. I’m going to stay at Morgana’s tonight. I want you in every way, but I feel like it’s disrespectful to Lance to rush home to you on the same day I break his heart. Please, please, don’t doubt how I feel. I ache for you xxxx_

He closes his eyes in the taxi across London, letting the sounds of traffic wash over him, fantasising about the large G&T Morgana had promised would be waiting for him. He wishes Lance had family near enough to support him. Gwen suddenly materialises in his consciousness, so he texts her too.

_I’ve just broken up with Lance. I’ve been a dick. He needs someone. Mx_

Merlin turns his phone off then, desperate for a few hours of silence after weeks of internal chaos.

*

After an evening hashing everything out with Morgana and Gwaine, who were surprised, but supportive, Merlin lies in their guest room and turns his phone back on, ready to face the music. There are only two messages; nothing from Lance.

Gwen: _Lance told me everything. How could you, Merlin? I think you’ve behaved appallingly._

Merlin’s eyebrows rise. _I know I have_ he texts back. _I have no excuses. Thank you for being with him_.

The next message is from Arthur.

_I completely understand. Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere (I could never find another flat as nice as yours)._ Merlin barks out a laugh. _I love you and I can’t wait to know you properly_. _Arthur xxxx_

_I can’t wait to know you properly._ That single, sweet, sincere sentence has Merlin harder than he’d have believed possible. It makes him think of learning the taste of Arthur’s bare skin and the curve of his arching spine, of finding the carefully hidden bundle of stimulatory nerves buried deep inside him. How is Arthur’s innocent allusion to intimacy the sexiest bloody thing Merlin’s ever read?

_I’ve never got hard from a text message before_

He presses send before he can think better of it, and sees the dots going as Arthur replies immediately.

_I’ve never done *anything* before_

Merlin chokes as he reads it, forgetting that this is all new to Arthur. Quite literally virgin territory. The weight of responsibility feels heavy, but with it comes the intoxicating, heady privilege of being the first. How can he ease Arthur’s nerves?

_I’m reliably informed that you seduced a minor celebrity in a world famous opera house, and then proceeded to destroy his sanity by dirty dancing with the King of BDSM. I’d say you were a natural._

He hits send and then re-reads his message, hoping it doesn’t come off too crass. 

_Also, there is absolutely no hurry, whatever my impatience has led you to believe. I just want to hold you. Whatever you want, okay?_

He sees the dots going.

_I really want you inside me_

“Fuck,” Merlin murmurs, sliding a hand beneath the sheets to touch his weeping cock.

_I really want to be inside you too_ he writes quickly, _I probably won’t last a minute_

The dots start again.

_Just think how many times you’ll come tomorrow then._

“Fuck,” Merlin curses, arching slightly as the pressure begins to build behind his balls. He allows himself long, sensual strokes, working up a heady rhythm by the time the next message flashes on screen.

_Is there anything I need to do to prepare?_

Arthur’s diligence is too much; he comes with a shuddering sigh, thanking Cupid for blessing him with this incredible, brave, beautifully open, honest person. When he’s recovered from his afterglow, and wiped his hands on his pyjama bottoms, he retrieves his phone to answer. 

_No, you’re perfect (and I am well stocked)._

_Off to bed now but I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve_

_I am so lucky, and I love you so dearly._

_(Remind me to buy Gaius a Porsche for Christmas xxxx)_

Dot dot dot … 

_I’m not worth a Porsche._

_I love you too, wanker_

Merlin barks out another laugh and shoves his phone under the pillow, grinning ludicrously. Tomorrow cannot come fast enough. And Arthur is worth far, far more than a Porsche. He’s dangerously close to being everything. 


	5. Chapter 5

When he arrives home the following day, Arthur is in the kitchen, slicing courgettes. He looks up when he hears Merlin come in, cheeks reddening slightly. 

“I’m making ratatouille,” he says, gesturing around. “And ciabatta.” Merlin puts his coat on the back of a dining chair.

“Is that a bread machine?” he asks incredulously. Arthur glances to the side and nods.

“I found it under the pasta maker,” he says.

“I have a pasta maker?” Merlin can’t remember ever purchasing any kitchen commodities. They must have been accumulated by his exes. He sees the nervousness in Arthur’s activity, the new shyness, and wants to eradicate all awkwardness between them. He tugs Arthur towards him by the waistband of his jeans, and settles his hands on his hipbones. 

“Can this wait?” he asks, quietly. Arthur puts down the knife and nods, gasping as Merlin tilts up his chin and kisses his throat.

“Good,” Merlin murmurs, finding Arthur’s mouth for a kiss. Their innocent melding of lips quite quickly deteriorates into needy, shuddering arousal, and Merlin pulls back, searching Arthur’s face for uncertainty. He finds nothing. Gently, he slides his fingers through Arthur’s, and pulls him through into his bedroom, pushing him down on to the bed and then climbing on top of him. He brackets Arthur’s face with his arms, tugging his hair back and sucking a bruise at the base of his neck.

“Anything makes you uncomfortable, you tell me stop, immediately, alright?” Arthur nods, already gasping, bowed beneath him. Merlin slowly undresses him, kissing the skin as he goes, sucking and grazing and soothing with his tongue. He slides a pillow underneath the small of Arthur’s back when he gets down to the thatch between his thighs, running his tongue down Arthur’s cock, and then across his hole, blowing cool air on it afterwards. Arthur is whimpering, pushing himself further down onto Merlin’s tongue, red with embarrassment and arousal. 

Merlin takes his time rimming Arthur, enjoying his musky scent, the headiness of his youthful warmth. Every time it sounds like Arthur is about to come he pulls back, licking his cock for a while instead, kissing his inner thighs, but he keeps returning to Arthur’s arse, gradually loosening the tight ring of muscle. Eventually, when Arthur feels boneless beneath him, he sits back and reaches for his bedside table, withdrawing a half-used bottle of Maximus. Arthur looks at it and blinks away, something like pain crossing his face. Merlin realises it was the lube he last used with Lance, and curses his insensitivity. 

“Hey,” he says softly, turning Arthur’s face back to his and leaning down to kiss him as he presses a slicked up finger against his hole. “This might sting a bit, okay?” Arthur nods trustingly, wincing as he’s breached for the first time, hands fisting the sheets beneath him as he struggles to relax. “It’s okay,” Merlin soothes, crooking his finger slightly and feeling relieved as he’s rewarded with a breathless gasp, Arthur’s face a picture of wonder, head thrown back and eyes wide, utterly perfect and debauched. He keeps rubbing that spot, gradually adding a second finger, until Arthur groans and comes suddenly, surprising Merlin with the force of his orgasm. It’s rare to come without being touched, ever, let alone for your first time, and your first time being _breached_. 

“ _Arthur_ ,” Merlin whispers, kissing Arthur’s belly and licking semen from his stomach, fingers withdrawing from the tight clench of his body during Arthur’s comedown, knowing how sensitised he will be. He keeps kissing him, stroking him, until Arthur tugs on his hair and he looks up.

“Please,” he asks in a husky voice Merlin doesn’t recognise. “ _Please_.” Merlin bites his lip. Ideally he’d wanted Arthur hard before entering him - it’s going to hurt more otherwise. 

“I’ll get there,” Merlin promises, fixing his mouth around one of Arthur’s nipples and sucking it until it peaks, licking and laving at his chest, neck, mouth until he feels Arthur harden again. He slides his fingers back inside Arthur and carefully lathers on more lube, before sitting back on his haunches and pulling off his shirt, unbuttoning the top of his jeans, pulling them down slightly around his thighs, and taking out his flushed, angry cock, tugging at it a couple of times whilst he reaches for a condom. 

“You don’t have to - ” Arthur starts, but Merlin silences him with a look.

“I absolutely do,” he says sternly. “I am not putting you at risk.” He lubes up the exterior and then slides a hand down to Arthur’s hips, helping him roll over, pillow beneath his groin. He’s still wearing his jeans, but he can’t be bothered to part from Arthur long enough to take them off. “I’ll get tested in a few weeks,” he promises. “I have every intention of fucking you bare, don’t you worry.” Arthur jerks into the pillow with a bitten-off moan, arse pushing back against Merlin’s thighs. He presses the tip of his cock to Arthur’s entrance and leans down, covering Arthur’s body with his own and bracketing his head with his arms. He leans down to kiss Arthur’s temple, pushing the head of himself inside as he does so. Arthur goes rigid beneath him and Merlin seeks out his mouth, kissing the pained noises out of it as he works his way inside. He breathes once he’s bottomed out, fully sheathed, and pauses for a minute to let them both adjust. He’s dangerously close to coming already.

“I’m okay,” Arthur whispers, squeezing his fingers, “this feels … God, Merlin. You’re …” he trails off and Merlin thinks he understands the awe in Arthur’s voice. Being taken for the first time is always overwhelming. Merlin pulls Arthur up onto his knees a little more, to improve the angle, and then reaches a hand down to stroke his half-hard cock as he begins slowly sliding in and out, biting the soft skin of Arthur’s shoulder to stave off orgasm for as long as possible. 

It feels amazing, being with Arthur like this. Making love to him is like learning to play a new musical instrument. Each part of him vibrates under Merlin’s careful attention, each new touch eliciting a different, glorious sound that Merlin wants to eat from his mouth and commit to paper - The Sex Symphony of Arthur, he’d call it. He’s so unguarded, responsive, sweet. His easy submission, his surrender to Merlin, fills Merlin’s senses until he loses control slightly and buries his head between Arthur’s shoulder blades as he begins to pump more erratically, deep and hard and probably too much for someone so new to this, but Arthur isn’t complaining, his cock is dribbling and he’s making the sweetest punched-out sounds, finally spasming as he comes into the pillow beneath him with a choked back sob. Merlin holds him tightly and speeds up his own thrusts, grunting with effort and then finally shouting with relief as he releases himself inside Arthur. He pants against Arthur’s skin for a long time, both of them satisfied and sleepy. 

Eventually the pins and needles in his right leg indicates to him that he needs to move. He withdraws, pulls off his condom and discards it in the bin, and finally sheds his jeans, briefs and socks, climbing back onto the bed and pulling Arthur into his arms. 

“I really liked that,” Arthur mumbles against his shoulder, smiling as Merlin tilts his chin up. 

“You are everything I didn’t know I needed,” Merlin whispers, uncharacteristically soppy. He pulls Arthur’s gorgeous young body against his own and then a rug over them both. “I love you so much.” 

They doze, trading kisses, until their rumbling stomachs have Arthur laughing.

“I’ll get going on supper, shall I?” Merlin nods, sliding his palm over Arthur’s. 

“But come and have a shower with me first,” he murmurs, stroking the shell of Arthur’s ear. 

* 

Later that night, Merlin slowly works himself down onto Arthur’s cock, groaning as he seats himself in Arthur’s lap, head back, hands splayed on Arthur’s stomach. Merlin barely ever bottoms - it’s never really done it for him - but he’s hungry to have Arthur inside him, and the feeling of being filled by someone he loves makes him shiver with pleasure.

“Arthur,” he breathes out, lifting himself up and grinding back down again slowly, eyes closed, body tingling.

“Oh God,” Arthur stutters, “Merlin, you -” he comes with a cry, body pulsing as his hips push up and nudge the deep place inside Merlin that sends sparks flying down his spine. “Fuck, I’m sorry, you’re so hot, it feels so - ” Merlin laughs, feeling besotted, remade, delighted by the newness of sex. It seems to be something completely different when you love the person you’re sharing your body with.

“Shh,” Merlin soothes him, kissing away his frown, “I struggled not to do exactly the same thing earlier, and I’ve got more than a decade’s experience on you.” Arthur slides a hand up Merlin’s back, mouth pressed against his collarbone.

“I’ll be hard again in a minute,” he murmurs, and Merlin congratulates himself on his choice of partner, and the clear benefits of Arthur’s age, when he begins to harden again almost immediately, responding to Merlin simply rocking above him, his half-hard cock swelling to fill Merlin properly again. 

This time he plants his feet on the bed and pumps his hips up to meet Merlin’s downwards thrusts, hitting Merlin’s prostate on every entrance, making fireworks explode inside his lower belly. 

“ _Nngh,”_ Merlin groans eloquently, lowering himself to his forearms to fuck himself harder on Arthur’s cock, bossy bottom if ever there was one. He pulls Arthur’s hair to tilt his head back, and then attaches his mouth to Arthurs, drinking all the noises he’s making, so turned on he almost _doesn’t_ want to come, if the alternative is riding this incredible high indefinitely. He’s beginning to realise that this is a new experience for him - one he hadn’t even realised he’d lacked. He thought he knew all the textures of sex, all of its nuances, but everything about Arthur has been a revelation to him. He rides Arthur until his thighs begin to seize, and his lower back to burn, and then he rolls on to his back and pulls Arthur on top of him, arching beneath him and closing his eyes.

“Go as hard and fast as you can,” he requests, and Arthur obliges, successfully bringing Merlin to a breathtaking, shouted climax within a matter of seconds. He follows him over immediately, flopping bonelessly against Merlin, nosing behind his ear.

“How do you ever leave the bedroom, if that’s what sex is like?” Arthur asks in a daze, sliding out of Merlin with a wince, and pulling him into an embrace.

“It’s never been like that,” Merlin says, not ashamed of being honest. He’s had sex with a lot of men - Arthur needs to know this is different. A pleased pink flush spreads across his chest, and Merlin strokes his legs, idly wondering whether he’s got a third orgasm in him tonight.

“Will you let me …” Arthur trails off, blushing. “I mean, I’d like to … taste you, next time?” Merlin looks up at him.

“If I ever say no to that question, either our relationship is about to end, or I’ve just found out I have ball cancer.” Arthur grins.

“Good to know,” he smirks. They’re idle for a few more moments before Arthur says softly, “I feel like I’ve won the lottery. Never in a million years did I think I’d ever find something like this.” Merlin pulls his head down for a kiss.

“I know the feeling,” he says seriously. “If I ever begin to make you feel like I’m taking this for granted, you give me a good ass-kicking, okay?” Arthur laughs, nodding his assent.


	6. CODA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A coda is a symbol used in sheet music to denote where the final passage of a piece begins. A piece will include a “da coda” instruction to tell the orchestra when to proceed to the beginning of the final passage.

When Arthur finishes college, they write two albums together, and tour it together, performing at some of the most prestigious venues around the world. One of Merlin’s favourites is in Prague one Christmas time, freezing his ass off in the icy markets with Arthur carefully choosing presents for Morgana and Gwaine’s new baby, warming up with glühwein in a makeshift wood chalet bar, mossy twinkling baubles dancing around their heads as they simply grin at each other over their steaming glasses, red faced and ridiculously in love.

The fire that music lit in Merlin’s belly as a teenager begins to be replaced by the fire that Arthur lights, and by the time he’s approaching forty he knows he’s ready for anything and everything Arthur might want. When Arthur is in residence in Milan, Merlin goes with him simply as his other half, happy not to be the one in the limelight for a change. He fills his time there by enrolling in a cookery school, delighting Arthur with his newfound ability to make fresh pasta and dough for bread, pizza, choux buns, and fancy European patisserie. Merlin continues to be surprised, and grateful, for all the unexpected ways in which Arthur has changed him. Grateful to have found someone he is naturally _in tempo_ with, effortlessly moving from one stage of life to the next without conscious effort.

They do eventually get married, and adopt two cats, Gustave and Flaubert. With easy access to nieces and nephews, neither of them feels the gap of children in their life together, and that’s okay. They have found everything they need, every possible fulfilment, in each other, and they celebrate it with their music.

*

_Finis_


End file.
